Some days it is bad, it is really bad. You wake up and the lump that was lugged in your throat is still there, sitting nicely, making it impossible to speak. You want to speak, but you cannot, an insatiable conundrum. You cannot speak because these people will not get it, you know; your head is not so in the clouds that you delude yourself into thinking they won’t listen to you if you say "hello, I’d like to talk to you". You know they’ll listen without necessarily listening, that’s where the problem lies -- they wouldn’t listen. They’ll sigh and coo and 'ooh: and 'aaah' then get back to talking about themselves, and that is in the days that they respond. On other days, it’s like you do not exist. Like you are stuck in a grey room starring at walls. Some days it is really bad. So you swallow it all up; brine and poison and toxic and bitter, you lock it all up. A prisoner to a face that wears a blank expression and lips that open only to answer to questions when asked. You say "Yes, I am fine" because that is the safest way to end a conversation, and '’okay’' because then you can avoid unnecessary intrusion into your thoughts. But your mental health is on the balance.
You share your bed and your meals with strangers; not strangers actually but. . . strangers. You go out and come back exhausted from a day full of conversations that leave you feeling the depth of the void, you are now a master at making statements that do not involve personal pronouns. Some days it is really hard.
But there is hope, child. You are not lost. These walls will press and press until they knock you flat against the wall and you reach Rock bottom, yes, rock bottom because that is where the glory lies and the revelation begins.
At Rock bottom, you shall find yourself, emancipated of the toxin that binds you to human gratification. At rock bottom, when you hit your head, the veil will tear with a loud cry and for once you will see correctly. That you are complete and whole, capable of emptying out and feeling back up again, that the sadness has dissipated and is replaced with a pleasing Nothing. The weightlessness will frighten you, your husk will be shattered and you’ll be exposed to perfect light. At rock bottom when this wall crushes you, the sounds of echoing stagnancy, the streaks, the blowing and incessant ringing in your head will be broken, the wall will become a comforting embrace, the final begining of the end game, the emergence of what is to come, the naked piece of a puzzle. At rock bottom, the blank pages will turn white and you will be sane again, the fog will be clear enough and you can reach your hand into the dump that is your eyes and drag yourself out of that unblinking dull glimmer of galaxies. At rock bottom you bleed, painfully and beautifully, you will watch you blood ooze and trickle down white floors until your head ring out in pain that transforms into an inescapable need, and when you are emptied out, there at rock bottom, you die.
But you awake in watercolors made from your own blood, pure sublimity, a majestic height of glee, an uncaged eagle, golden with unsung melodies of Valor.
And the world is lost in your splendor.
Hit rock bottom.
©️2021, Pennacle.
